Review:​There’s a question nobody’s asking, but is important to ponder over: If two people existed without laws over them, could they walk together unless agreeing to do so? The answer is right in John Wick: Chapter 3 – Parabellum.

First step to answering the question above, it’s good to analyze the extremely weak relationships that continue to build up John Wick’s misadventures. Instead of allowing a sense of soul, priority goes to the heavy action, even sacrificing heart for the sake of tension or comedy. As effective as it may be, there’s virtually no attention to story arcs, blood is even allowed to splatter on the lens as a glamorization of dying very graphically. Though this movie has many cases of that beautified murder left and right, especially throughout a chase on a closed bridge that ensures the chasers have it all to themselves to do whatever they want.

Second, none of the conversations these so-called “characters” hold with one another establish any real conflict. In one crucial scene when John gets an upside-down crucifix burnt onto his back, it feels more like a mere video game cutscene than a character study. Anjelica Huston in particular drags things down to borderline absurdity with her bad accent that almost worsens the dialogue. Although in complete fairness, this screenplay still contains the same amount of verbal exposition as a classic stylistic action piece of the late 90’s, The Matrix’s… that being, too much.

Third, a positive quality this time, the audio artistry of this film has a full, complete trinity of design work. Point one: John actually rides a horse down the streets of New York to flee motorcycles, in any other production this would be absolutely ridiculous, but the soundtrack makes this somehow a cool moment! Point two: the theater seat pulses as everything from the speakers go BAM! BAM! BAM! BAM! BOOM! BOOM! BOOM! Point three: The noise of glass shattering draws focus onto anticipations framed behind the subjects to make the viewer think, “Ooh! This will be a wicked fight!”

Fourth, the production design of old green marble serves as the perfect stage of memorable hand-to-hand combat. After an opening race against the clock to stir up fury, every set piece looks orderly while deceptively spiteful, the most impactful one being some glass stairs that symbolize transparent vulnerability. All the classy violence that happens inside and outside these walls stays consistently fresh even when guns clash amidst dungeon-like horse stables immediately before the provocative image of a backlit ballerina. Then, it’s all drowned out by the end when the mega techno colors melt into a sharp green climax. It’s the perfect balance between serene and gruesome imagery to generate strong depictions of pain; colors are heard, beats are seen, a visual-audio combo producing something wicked. Congratulations to everyone on the production crew!

Fifth, a negative this time, as much as this movie tries to depict what a potential war breakout could look like, it fails. Now, here’s a joke: Knock, knock. Who’s there? Iran. Iran who? I ran far away, because America may go to war against Iran soon, possibly starting a disturbance called, “WWIII.” War is no laughing manner, and this pretty picture about a man named John isn’t nearly as prophetic as a number of scenes featuring people from the Middle East make you believe. It can’t be relevant for today, considering it can’t even settle on a time period to take place in. Which is it? The 1980’s? The 2000s? The 1970’s? The 1940’s? The series’ attempt at style by incorporating technological elements from different decades doesn’t serve any real purpose for whatever theme it wants to generate… the fact that a horse shed exists in the middle of freaking New York City doesn’t help!

Sixth, and this is the entire series’ biggest drawback, despite its miraculous theatrical wonder, John Wick’s journey still winds up being pure unadulterated nonsense. This is a reality where time doesn’t exist, an assassin can get away with murder, and passersby at a train station never notice two guys within a crowd trying to kill one another. There’s never a grounding of logic or reality, even by the standards of its own fantasized world—almost nobody ever runs out of ammo unless by plot demands! Instead, it’s all style and no coherence, its stylized closed captions leaving more sensitive viewers eye-hurt from the overly excessive adrenaline.

Again: If two people existed without laws over them, could they walk together unless agreeing to do so? Well, think of it this way: one cannot stretch beyond limitations, others must agree upon those limits decided by authority. Thus, based on the way John Wick: Chapter 3 – Parabellum encourages a chaotic existence where everyone wants to hurt each other, the answer is undeniably no.

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Review:​Knowing that we’re also getting a Sonic the Hedgehog movie later this year, Pokémon Detective Pikachu, feels like the start of the “Super Smash Bros. Cinematic Universe.” It’s lately been a trend other Marvel-imitators are trying to take on, even Warner Bros. is trying to start its own “Dark Universe” with its latest reboots of Godzilla, the Mummy, and King Kong. This first ever live-action Pokémon movie perhaps exists with that unhealthy mentality. Whether or not if that’s the case, this feature film will quickly turn Hollywood wobblier than it was before.

The passive protagonist of this adaptation off the legendary franchise, Tim, is a lonely young man who apparently feels regret from his father’s death, and by the very end of his journey we see him take, he is still the same person. Any giant, fat, sleepy behemoth would have a higher IQ than him, at least such a beast can go through enough change to wake up for food; Tim never even acts out of free will. To make it even more dull, he gets a completely unnecessary love interest, Lucy, and as they accidentally clash heads as they both lean to pick something up—as a way to push their romance further. But spoiler alert: their love subplot is completely forgotten two-thirds of the way through. A chance to grieve over death never lands, for any information about the demise of Tim’s father only conveys itself via advanced holographic technology run by a shadowed bad guy stroking a feline without reason. It’s the same atmosphere and formula from every bland piece of Saturday morning cartoon entertainment.

Tim and Lucy live in a magical place called “Ryme City,” that was founded with the intent of bringing peace between people and Pokémon without any more battles (like Zootopia or some crap). Some of the cute little critters work there as firefighters and others as sushi chefs, but none of them work as guards around a top-secret facility. How come? Simple: because the kids got to break into it for the climax to happen. If it wasn’t for their trusty plot armor, the two leads’ passionless performance wouldn’t be bogged down enough for you to fantasize yourself in their place amidst such a colorful cast. By colorful though, I meant their exteriors, not their personalities.

Now, Lucy, the sole female character of the entire film, is by far the blandest of the cast, with so little disposition that she does not even care if her city is foremost masculine. In Ryme City, there are some Pokémon with ears used as DJ sound speakers, another muscular one with four arms guides traffic, but there are no feminine professions like beauty salon or flower booth owners to be seen. How is it that throughout production, no women in the cast or crew spoke up about the lack of diversity?

To be fair though, the concept of being distinct from the others is well captured through the digital creations of the Pokémon; well enough so that they look faithful to their classic anime counterparts. You could reach out and stroke the fur of the angry, growling pink bulldog Pokémon, then the special effects of a transforming fuchsia blob balances out the charm with its downright creepiness. In total, every one of these Pokémon gives much joy, and once the credits roll, you will want to keep at least one as a pet. Although others you will not want as a pet, as a gang of ninja frogs with tongues wrapped around their necks match the aura of legit horror.

Still though, as much as the IMAX sight adds some drops of black gesso against the glorious bright neon colors, the visuals only serve as a distraction from the awful writing. Maybe the final narrative twist could be pretty amazing without a thinking cap worn on your head. When taking the visual experience into deeper consideration, it’s still not terribly memorable, aside from one sequence featuring a garden of various turtle-like Pokémon. But not even that has any real plot significance aside from looking really cool. I’d even have to say the awful Jurassic Park sequels have more memorable impact with their even mix of digital and practical effects.

Speaking of that garden scene, it tries to be a part of a failed environmental message about a bunch of genetically manipulated dinosaur creatures that pose a danger to the people. Sound familiar? That kind of environmental message is one big pile of Goldblum if you ask me. But the worst thing of all, the entire script is held together by a tired out neglectful father trope, with sentences about the evil of humanity present for good measure. It’s a bad case of all these ideas tossed together randomly without a goal in mind.

With all this weak creativity reliant on old properties… of course it means exploitative businesses like this one would resort to making bank off a horrific case of brand exploitation. I mean it: Pokémon Detective Pikachu is literally a brand (Detective Pikachu the 3DS game) of a brand (Pikachu in general) of a brand (the Pokémon franchise)!

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Review:​Here is a challenge: take a shot every time you see the word “submit” below:

America has had an… interesting history, one that’s reached the point of its people gladly watching a bunch of fictional superhumans rule space. The cinematic world responsible for that also tempts viewer submission into vulgar comedies like Long Shot, which celebrates all the negative characteristics the nation spends its time pondering over, including the wrong conclusions drawn out about what will solve our problems.

This hard-R romantic comedy has issues that start with its inability to relate the target audience well with the two leads. As much as the pothead journalist, Fred, spends time with the youngest Secretary of State, the awkward sexualization of her buffers down the depth of a flashback he has. In that flashback, Fred was thirteen, she was his sixteen-year-old babysitter, they kissed, his crotch popped, and there’s nothing else to analyze about these characters beyond that. Eventually this overly familiar rom-com style suddenly becomes an action genre, then quickly back again without fluidity, proving an inability to stay focused on a cinematic style. No, it doesn’t matter if there is a hilariously realistic sex scene between these two very different members of the political arena, the appeal to a mass audience needs to go beyond familiar tropes.

In fact, the crass nature promotes bad uneasy images to merely conclude without reason that a woman as the president will solve our problems. In truth, no leader, man or woman, can stop everything that goes on beneath our awareness, including a submissive cult depicted in this movie that forces its all-White-male members to get a Swastika tattoo. Fred finds himself wound up in that very predicament on a journalism project, and that scene honestly should have been cut out completely for its lack of any relevance to the plot. There’s even grosser depictions of inferiority that holds back proper screen time on details that matter, it’s said at one point that Fred is Democratic, and his apparently inferior Black friend Lance is Christian-Republican; nothing important to the plot there, just thrown in as an attack on anyone who isn’t White and Atheist. The same goes to the nine different countries this romantic couple travels to; none of them are positively represented.

To worsen matters, the nonsensical script unintentionally borders around Saturday Night Live territory. Between the places these two go visit, the governmental structure ignores reality as no sense of security submits necessary borders around them. The Secretary’s proposal of a Global Rehabilitation Initiative to springboard a 2020 campaign comes off more like a terrible Fox News skit than something discussed in-depth on Good Morning, America.

Now, it’s not all bad, because the humor mostly works; Fred drinking tequila out of a baggie is immediately identifiable. Also, right before entering the Secretary of State’s office, considerable time lingers on the emptying of his pockets to security. If nothing else about him, Fred’s loud windbreaker should imprint the memory even when he churns out speeches inspired by his new girlfriend’s youth. So, topped off by the hilarious way he manipulates his incomplete Swastika tattoo, the circumstances of tequila squeezed from agaves generate a great laugh.

As a plus, the cast while not amazing at least passes as average, particularly O'Shea Jackson Jr. who submits his acting talent as Fred’s best friend and keeps things from drowning. Meanwhile, Seth Rogen’s clumsy walking style contrasts Charlize Theron’s silly hand wave that proves how disorderly she really is. Together, these two misfits submit a fair attempt at political parody based on what relatively little was available by the direction and script.

Speaking of scripts, here is a real fast definition of America: “We hold these truths to be self-evident, that all men are created equal, that they are endowed by their Creator with certain unalienable rights, that among these are Life, Liberty and the Pursuit of happiness.” (Declaration of Independence, 1776)

As much as Long Shot tries to honor tradition, many international films out there are still better at expanding the audience’s cultural horizons. Know that America’s name comes from Amerigo Vespucci, an Italian, which means since the very beginning, the United States remains White and male. Right now, looking at our cultural climate over the past three terms, orange became the new black, and boy became the new man. It would be wonderful to someday see a perfectly qualified Black lady rule from inside the oval office, but until that happens, please refrain from electing a drug-induced Charlize Theron who takes selecting her speechwriter so lightly.

Now, how are you? Feeling tipsy yet?

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If there is a specific movie you’d like to see graded, or if you are interested in guest blogging for my site, please email me at Trevor@TrevorsViewOnHollywood.com for your recommendations.​Have a great weekend, and happy watching!

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Sources:

“The Declaration of Independence: What Does it Say?”National Archives. USA.gov. Web. <https://www.archives.gov/founding-docs/declaration/what-does-it-say>.

“How Did America Get Its Name?”The Loc.Gov. The Library of Congress. Web. <https://www.loc.gov/wiseguide/aug03/america.html>.

Review:​Thirty years ago, the critical and financial flop Howard the Duck was among the only comic book features from Stan Lee’s imagination. Then twenty years later, it took a total reversal to the capacity when Marvel has mastered the art of brainwashing people into numbly thinking their products, including their newest one, Avengers: Endgame, lands among the greatest Hollywood productions ever (just look at IMDb’s top 250 for crying out loud). But in truth, this is no different than anything else the MCU urinates, and yes, that includes The Incredible Hulk and Thor: The Dark World.

The time travel genre of this finale to phase three explains plot holes by mocking similar movies, yet still winds up far more illogical than Back to the Future, The Terminator, Hot Tub Time Machine 2, and all others of such. The random sequence arrangement between the multiple heroes who jump through multiple places in time turns tedious, but not nearly as tedious as when they explain then re-explain stuff through massive information dumps that continue even after the climax. The atrocious script confuses the average viewer beyond wanting to care as it shoves aside an important character death two-thirds of the way through to make extra time for awkward jokes and boring exposition.

The first joke happens in a very serious conversation where multiple lives are discussed as being at stake, then bam: Tony insults Rocket with intention to generate a chuckle. Among the more awkward jokes thrown around includes one of how nobody knows who Ant-Man is while everybody knows who the Hulk is. Except that joke doesn’t really work, not only because it has nothing to do with the plot, but mostly because everybody on earth now knows Ant-Man. This imbalance between drama and comedy is just chaos unworthy of celebration, which can’t even carry any intelligence throughout a sentimental San Francisco memorial for the Snap victims.

Anyone deeply committed to the series could mostly likely by now be terribly sick of the cut-a-second editing and nauseating handheld camera, which here gets so bad it diminishes any impact of the bloated “sudden death” climax. Not to mention there’s drawn out music that never changes its style—a heavily American score that makes the already racist depiction of a Japanese assassin much more unacceptable. The music can’t even make a smooth transition between scenes, not that there could be one to start with, most of the “sad scenes” transition to upbeat scenes on a dime… at least Captain America 1990 stayed consistently cheesy.

Out of complete fairness though, the problems of humanity start things off in this production as best as they can. It starts when Hawkeye’s daughter vanishes after an archery lesson, then develops it further as it shows how the dark fate of Tony seems to be booked, until Captain Marvel saves him. She’s in here for only a total of about two minutes, but Brie Larson has improved her horrendous performance from the last movie, which is enough to make the first two scenes of this movie relatively effective.

In fact, all of the actors are better than before thanks to the more heartful attempts against urgent problems this studio wants to comment on. Mark Ruffalo is now at his funniest based off how high his character rises, as is Chris Hemsworth, based off how low his character drops. It’s like they both accepted the fact that they’re stuck in a skittles-level narrative, and it only took them eight years to finally make the most of it without phoning in their performances! That little motivation the Russo brothers express uplifts the somewhat brilliant comedic effect when watching clever flashbacks to previous movies, which triggers effective tension.

Don’t be fooled though, those behind this production still willfully deny whatever trouble they caused, particularly in how much they dishonor our own spirituality. It’s easy to neglect the individuals within this three-hour blitz, considering they are impossible to count by now. Because Disney isn’t even trying to tell an actual story, Thanos‘ complexity disappears from his last appearance. The heroes honestly showed more layers of opinion and conflict without a villain, much like in one of the MCU’s finer films, Captain America: Civil War, it would be better to return to that level of risk-taking instead of this blatant fanservice.

Geez, the deeper I review such a popular insult to art like Avengers: Endgame, the angrier I become about what some choose for fulfillment! It’s recommended not to writers who crank out a billion dollars without even trying. Eventually their true colors will show, and ultimately reveal the wrong in giving up money to Mickey Mouse. If “you are what you watch” is true, then wasting three hours here will give the effect of a trash heap on those who worship the red logo. There are instead greater resources out there: a tree, a friend, a father, a church, that are worth greater rewards than something that will later disappoint.

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Review:​Here’s what the thought process of mine was like back in middle school: back then, I thought Pixar set the golden standard of filmmaking, until Cars 2 came out the summer after my high school graduation. It gave me a much-needed reality check before entering college, which worked for the better, as once Cars 3 came out, I accepted the truth that Pixar is no different than other studios. But middle school was also the time when having a social circle was a nearly nonexistent priority until high school. The Mustang captures that sense of aloneness and desperation miraculously to the point where it makes you look back and see the now more realistically.

Being a weak conversationalist, I usually feel separated from others, similar to the fear that first time feature director Laure de Clermont-Tonnerre triggers through static sounds. She works with production designer Carlos Conti (The Motorcycle Diaries) to make barriers around a horse pen look like prison bars, or a lavender anger management room infuriate the nerves. Meanwhile, the “good guy” supervisors wear blue, so even they appear deranged. Although the prison setting could benefit from a more diverse cast to voice what political correctness of today means in that part of society, the theme of control is still more powerful than you could imagine.

The somber set designs match how I, being autistic, feel when around many people, right down to the visual stimulation. Some on the autism spectrum hate certain colors, such as yellow and brown, so likewise, the protagonist, Roman, has the same case with signs he could have a mental disability. One cut transitions him chucking a bag of chips to shoveling out dung, between these two connected activities, Roman remains of very few words while embracing crap.

He speaks more with his eyes as they bond not with people, but with a locked-up animal: The lack of trust turns apparent from outside the two long-faced eye-gazers. He is the horse, the horse is him, a concept established right away immediately upon Roman’s introductory frame, hence why this crowd-pleaser should be celebrated.

Though be warned, it’s not a traditional crowd-pleaser, as one of its modes of focus is on Roman’s daughter, who tragically let herself become pregnant. The time she spends with dad is a little too manipulative in sadness but is so core to the theme of this production that it would be criminal to leave her out.

The crowd-pleasing rather tells hard truths about inner fragility via Roman’s explosive f-bombs that beat your chest. Then your ears buzz as a traumatic dust storm breathes beneath heavy orange lights, a special effects sequence that proves how the production crew really put the best of their hands to deliver the tremendous guilt-driven moments of anger.

The technical elements paint the dangerous waters the typical man must swim across, kicked off by an annoying whistle sound heard over a helicopter chase against glorious mountains—sheer irony of chaos surrounded by glory. Then as it gets smaller in the confinement of a cell, the scope remains remarkable after Roman studies an informative magazine secretly given to him.

The camera’s motion is almost always handheld in order to express the same level of FOMO discouragement you’d feel after spending too much time on a Facebook wall. It’s done in that lavender room as the camera pans past each unnamed anger management patient individually until it stops at Roman. These men, along with his underused cell mate, prove a couple of missed opportunities in generating deeper insight of Roman’s outside influence, but that pressure is still beyond clear due to the harsh sunlight that beats down on him to challenge what he can handle.

Life benefits from having others around, which explains my depressed feelings from struggling to form solid bonds. Pixar’s filmography has ironically coincided exactly with what I’m going through at the time, right down to teaching me at age six that people over time will eventually leave. Of course, the summer before senior year, by the time the Toy Story trilogy was concluded, it felt like my childhood was over, as I knew I soon had to start over again with finding love from other places.

The Mustang is guaranteed to help you grasp that same somber, reflective sorrow needed to find a permanent place of belonging past iron and concrete.

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Review:​From 1900 to the first photographed black hole, from White men ruling the nation to women finally being allowed to serve as police officers, political correctness seems to get the better of our crazy nature, to the extent where a perfectly healthy desire to achieve equal rights becomes our greatest poison. Missing Link tries to fill those gaps between 100 years ago and now with its best intentions at heart, but ultimately doesn’t get most of anything right. No proper insight exposes what anybody thinks about anything, not even a view of the Statue of Liberty under construction, which is there for no reason besides to look pretty.

This story remains completely typical as it replicates beat-by-beat the unemotional American love story—where the girl at first hates the boy but then she changes after accepting his immaturity. This “boy” is actually a well-dressed grown gentleman named Lionel, one who isn’t ashamed to join in on a fiddle-and-string saloon bar fight during his glossed-over travels to the United States. Lionel’s story really isn’t worth exploring anyway, since in his first scene, he seems unfazed when a prehistoric lake monster drags his colleague underwater, automatically making him a jerk not worthy of sympathy.

These childish characters go through absolutely no change by the end, particularly Lionel’s passive co-lead, the legendary sasquatch. Despite being the last of his kind in a disappearing home, the big-footed beast never gives the viewer a reason to care about their journey to the Himalayas. It’s not charming when they ride on a negatively depicted Indian transportation vehicle (saddle and elephant), it’s not hot with high stakes when a one-dimensional villain tries to stop them for money, it merely settles for getting the job done.

Although production designer Lou Romano (The Incredibles) still reflects reluctant old, old tribal art styles in the colorful set pieces. Right from the opening shot of a bare snow footprint that transitions into a shoe-bearing human footprint, Romano keeps feet a consistent metaphor. There’s a huge castle that is framed to compensate for the tonal coldness as it triggers acrophobia icier than a grassy civilization, and there’s Lionel running on the walls of a boat as it scales ninety degrees up a wave. Director Chris Butler (ParaNorman) knows how to combine the ancient craft of making figurine dolls with modern technology to tell stories in a way inspired off centuries-old traditions.

Now, it’s time to highlight the film’s biggest laugh beyond a photorealistic bird’s-eye desert sea view: It’s Ching Valdes-Aran, the best voice actor in the cast, who voices a confused, quiet old lady named Gamu. Especially when she shrieks, the reason is strong enough of a joke, but her delivery of that shriek makes the final punch complete. Valdes-Aran is not the only one whose voice connects perfectly to the puppet eyes, everyone in the cast does all that they can to attempt a full experience in spite of the dreadful script. It results in some really funny moments, including why one character is named “Susan,” and why that name connects to the literal thought process of the big orange behemoth. It’s nothing special or memorable, but most certainly gets the chuckle going.

The laughs aren’t enough though; it would be much funnier with a logical explanation as to why Mr. Sasquatch speaks and reads perfect English, aside from just being around humans all the time. Not to mention the disguise Lionel dresses him up in has the buttons bursting at the seams, yet nobody notices. The comedy would also ring truer if there were more prevalent questions addressed beyond just the third scene about the authenticity of evolution.

The distance from reality results in another core of humanity this film wrongfully ignores: religion. One just can’t talk about the missing links between man and ape without bringing Christianity, Science, or Christian Science into it as well. Instead of something that deserves a watch and rewatch, this widely atheistic story about White folk centers around typical tropes, those that would no longer become clichés if there were just more philosophical concepts brought up for the audience to ponder over. That goes as well to its lack of international representation, which seems to have low priority to the designs of bug-eyed seagulls with unrealistically oversized heads.

For a different cinematic experience that attempts to spark our fear of vulnerability, but actually succeeds, then watch Us, which is so far the best movie of 2019 for confronting our national fear. It’s even better to go off away from all civilization to hang out with the penguins in Antarctica, kind of like what Disney’s latest documentary filmmakers just did. Now there’s another worthwhile cinematic experience which deserves more attention than a stop-motion letdown like Missing Link!

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The adorable circus animal who used his freakishly giant ears to fly may have been pure lovability, until Tim Burton’s “reimagining” proves even the cuddliest things can mark that assumption wrong. The new Dumbo embraces saturated marketing only to take advantage of the public, much like how a “sweet” family-friendly story features a hot wife for no reason besides to satisfy the male gaze. The typical person thinks that s/he wants to relive childhood memories temporarily, which of course leads the Disney studio to exploit classic Burton.

The wicked imagination behind Beetlejuice, Batman, and other hits of abnormality brings only one scene of his trademark style as he directs totally demented pink elephant bubbles. Although it’s an incredibly pointless scene, made even worse when the editor cuts away too quickly for the audience to get a good look at the rosy bubbles. Henceforth, the intention of it being a creepy scene fails. Burton also attempts relevance by including the original cartoon Dumbo merchandise that is sold to patrons, which is still an old-fashioned, dumbed-down way of conveying the complex ideas of abusing stardom.

The cast displays less talent than the CGI face on the delightful Casey Jr. train, with less time put into redeeming the corrupted flesh of the actors’ absent facial work, without so much as a smile nor gag in sight. I mean… does the widower father feel even a smidgen of survivor’s guilt? He never shows it. Any genuine feeling, particularly that of foulness, only comes out through the emotionally hollow way Jumbo Jr. gets his humiliating name. Then there’s Michael Keaton, whose funny overacting matches Indiana Jones and the Temple of Doom. Yeah, no comment.

Now, for some lessons on Mouse House screenwriting 101:

Pander early on by throwing in a lazy shot of field-working slaves for no reason.

Neglect the details, don’t make it clear right away that it’s the ears that make the pipsqueak a freak.

Don’t show anyone affected by the danger of a baby animal.

Make sure when there’s a sad scene between animals, don’t show them crying, a lady playing on a ukulele will suffice.

Reference an old Hollywood masterpiece, Raging Bull, by making Dumbo’s big top intro mimic a boxing match, with focus on the mike… to please genuine movie fans!

Talk down to the PG-rated crowd.

​With all these blaring issues, it goes to no surprise that nobody in the screenplay changes by the end, particularly the daughter, who hopes to pursue science outside the three rings. A key necklace is supposed to be a core component to her arc, yet it’s addressed exactly twice—nowhere near enough times! She almost positively hates being in the project, much like Colin Farrell, as he makes clear through his performance.

There are those appropriately dark moments, ones with indistinguishable animal silhouettes in black fog, but they are so short and so sparse, it doesn’t redeem how little the adults behind this feature expect out of young developing minds. It thinks children are inept at comprehending tragedy, just a lemur singing, “I like to move it, move it!” Yet in truth, as much as you try to sustain a crap circus for gullible minds to watch, the financial complications take over. These losers cannot bring the near-bankrupt circus back on top—they cannot manage money responsibly!

Yet Disney still builds up the hype, as after their past hits across animation and Broadway won over the public, they now continually tarnish their reputation with awful photorealistic remakes. People have said good things about them so far, but it seems over time that lower faith will be found toward such a nostalgic studio as it becomes a victim of its own identity. Of everyone responsible for this train wreck, only Oscar legend Colleen Atwood meets her high standard as she allows the visual power of costumes to flourish.

Surely you know yourself well enough to know that a movie where Morgan “God” Freeman gives Steve Carell ark-construction supplies is really only an excuse to make poop jokes. Surely you trust yourself enough to stop gullibly giving your money to an evil corporation despite all the signs from trailers and marketing saying to you, “we don’t care!” Do civilization a favor; ignore the pachyderm conga line at the Disney Corp. & Burton & Keaton Circus.

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Review:​Sorry guys, the DCEU keeps the same crappy identity it had before, and Shazam! proves how much Warner Bros. wastes time with what it wants to be. Off their record of consistently bad films, DC Entertainment thinks sincerity means following impulsive actions, a mindset they convey with their newest addition to the extended universe, Billy (AKA, “Shazam”).

This kid enjoys food, not within a family dinner table, but alone at a burger joint to get high on fructose. Any sense of connection between himself and others is so empty, he barely even conveys any apparent thoughts on the fact that his disabled foster brother wants to be him: a big, tough, handsome man with superpowers and no physical ailments. Billy is so distanced from the viewer, that even an inanimate plush tiger has better character development.

Also embracing those McDonald’s carbs, yet somehow perfectly healthy, is Billy’s absent mom, whose barely present subplot conributes nothing to the point where it only distracts from the other conflicts. As much as it tries to uplift the heart of the feature, it does so in all the wrong places. Other elements within the script that would actually benefit from extra screentime don‘t get it, particularly a wizard with an aged hairstyle that marks him as the only controller of mass hysteria.

It’s better to quench thirst with something actually important, more so than anything that happens to the kid actors of this movie. These youngsters are neither good at acting nor playing decent role models; Billy’s first move is him locking up cops to rob their car, and without any real punishment for it after! Meanwhile, a young girl of Billy’s foster home always looks personally unphased by anything, even sights as miraculous as crocodiles with poker chips. This inactive lassie drags the rhythm of each scene down to the point where a recurring, funny Santa earns more attention than the leads.

Then there’s the unintentionally funny prologue to the film, which expects authenticity when one of the passive twerps of that scene grows up into a monologuing bad guy worth being mocked by some kid. He’s not someone to be taken seriously and should have been much grittier to shine a brighter light against the wisecracking protagonist. If this bad guy was jokingly called, “Thundercrack,” or “Captain Sparklefingers,” he would for sure react too softly to be realistic. But hey, at least those two nicknames serve as great modes of successful laughs during Billy’s hilarious discovery of his powers.

Billy doesn’t accept either of those nicknames as a superhero name, nor does he want to live under anyone besides a biological parent. That ambition is not one that anyone of mature mind would want to connect with, particularly seeing how horrible the mother is as seen through flashbacks, even more so than the stupid-looking CGI demons who throw people out of windows. Not even a teenager on a crutch with three months terminal cancer is successful at generating sympathy. As much as director David F. Sandberg utilizes his horror resume, he still flops at directing emotion while trying to modernize old tropes. There’s one point when an FAO Schwartz piano is incorporated into a mall fight, which is funny alright, but doesn’t flow into the intent of giving comic book movies a new edge.

The problem lies in the screenplay’s logic, which is still the exact same as comic books have been since their inception. Heck, this even takes it a step further by saying that Billy was chosen by the wizard because he’s apparently, “pure in heart.” Yeah, right! Why would an overacting jerk who relies on impulses, Frito’s in hand, be “pure in heart?” The same goes to his irksome ol’ sidekick with the crutch, he’s so annoying that it’s honestly satisfying when he gets beaten up by bullies. Surprising that these two hooligans manage to stay thin with all their freedom, it just boils down to the reality that the goal of these filmmakers is not about protecting Philadelphia, it’s about encouraging kids to misbehave while bodybuilding in a bold, classic costume. If we put ourselves in Billy’s place, and were forced to pick between stopping a bank robbery and a chocolate cake, of course the studio would send mind tricks compelling you to lean toward the bad decision.

The DCEU can try, but it will never top Nolan’s Dark Knight trilogy or Spider-Man: Into the Spider-Verse; the two standards fans hold to what a comic book movie can be. It’s not about the cool suit, it’s about allowing the viewer to think for him/herself about what tactics will truly redeem the city. Although Nolan’s and Sony’s respective versions of the classic vigilantes are certainly flawed, they hold a grail of genuine perfection compared to this electric lightning-bearing assassin.

​Thanks so much for your time in reading! Please subscribe to my site for more updates on reviews.

If there is a specific movie you’d like to see graded, or if you are interested in guest blogging for my site, please email me at Trevor@TrevorsViewOnHollywood.com for your recommendations.​Have a great weekend, and happy watching!

Review:​The United States has always been susceptible to inescapable disasters. We are still recovering from when the World Trade Center was attacked. We are still recovering from Hurricane Katrina. We are also still recovering from “Hands Across America.” Yeah, that “happy, lively” event advertised through cheesy commercials in truth left a nasty effect on Us. Don’t believe that accusation? Jordan Peele proves so with his newest instant-classic.

Before analyzing its brilliance, here comes a little “tough love” on the film’s poor screenplay, which is packed with coincidences. Several laughs come from the father in a Marvel fashion—that being, inappropriate comic relief thrown into serious moments. There are a couple other slightly offensive jokes that a few audience members could deem pretty dumb. It’s not just the inconsistent humor though that hinders the script’s addressed questions to our existential crisis, but too many crucial details don’t go into enough depth to make sense out of the situations; that particularly goes to the antagonists: doppelgangers of people named “shadows” who call themselves “Americans.” Where did they originally come from? It doesn’t quite explain.

In the world of regular people, little modes of affect upon the mother’s terror don’t reach their intended impact, mostly the frequent use of a man brandishing Jeremiah 11:11 on a handheld sign. It’s not clear how someone trying to play the role of a prophet isn’t warning of an upcoming tragedy that will tear the nation further apart against itself. The role of the media could particularly have been used from that free motif’s advantage to do something besides oppress our progression, but the media instead creates a poor picture of itself to raise our self-esteem, as if it’s reflecting back on those Watergate days of corrupt news outlets.

Okay, enough negativity, everything else about Jordan Peele’s new work of art projects the same disruptive power of Heaven’s Gate. The opening text informs of how North America sits above derelict underground tunnels, some without any known use, leading into a very slow dolly in at a cheerful “Hands Across America” ad on an old TV. Then comes a fearful flashback to justify the mom/protagonist’s trauma, who wanders onto the lightning-lit beach, until stuck in a maze of mirrors after the exit sign. Now, she fears Santa Cruz as her memory is overlapped by buzzing carnival music. Then the opening credits dolly out of a red, furry eye to reveal rabbits caged up to an ominous children’s choir. With the haunting intro to a true experience done with, it sparks back your permanent effects from the nation’s roller coaster history, as if any optimism the 1980s gave to counteract the 1950s-1970s has now dissipated.

The new millennium has already been no stranger to calamity, hence why we must ask ourselves, “What do we have to anticipate in the 2020’s?” Easy: A new decade, a new culture, a whole new set of expectations based on the failures of the 2010’s. The kids in this feature portray that answer, as the son, Jason, mask and magic trick in hand, finds trouble concentrating, but not as much as his sister, Zora, who stays on her phone at all times. This look of submission that the Gen Alpha characters fall victim to turns them susceptible to danger.

The mystery remains subtle enough to make Martin Scorsese proud. At first, a traumatized little girl lines up sandbox toys, then once inside a long, bleak square hallway, why she lines those toys up makes perfect sense.

It displays the media spelling out our doom based on the sound mixers’ perfect song usage. It takes little cheap trends, particularly one stick figure family focused on before the real family, to impress upon our flatness. Frustration through Dad’s humor represents humanity’s whole insecurity comparable to whenever religious groups call hurricane tragedies, “God’s wrath.” Using creepy daylight imagery of a large-scale cult, a wonderful thing turns into something scary, much like how a hurricane turns a bright, tropical vacation into death flooding around at every block.

Yet that metaphorical hurricane was actually a record-breaking fundraiser originally intended to raise up to 100 million for poverty in Africa, but only made 15 million in bank. That’s why it’s high-time Jordan Peele tells the hard truth: despite Hands Across America, “Nobody cares about the end of the world.” That’s why we need to remember that the people’s mindset tops priority over money raised; together, palm in palm, observing our commonalities, so not to relive our shortcomings. It’s incredible how Peele’s hot streak thus far can be either simply enjoyed by the typical moviegoer or thoroughly analyzed by the cinema artists, carrying a deceptive amount of heart in the process of the hilarity and screams. Give this horror film a chance, then you for certain will want to do your part in removing the traps that separate us.

Thanks so much for your time in reading! Please subscribe to my site for more updates on reviews.

If there is a specific movie you’d like to see graded, or if you are interested in guest blogging for my site, please email me at Trevor@TrevorsViewOnHollywood.com for your recommendations.​Have a great weekend, and happy watching!

Review:​We each have our time-wasting habits that cause us to forget just how short life really is. You could anticipate habitually checking on social media to last only a minute, then suddenly a half hour later are googling why you should use bourbon for a chocolate chip cookie recipe. Those procrastination moments halt our livelihood to borderline existing in solitude, sleepless with apple pie a la mode heated without the strawberry ice cream (or non-canned whipped cream) on top. Five Feet Apart attempts to dramatize that concept of how valuable time with others is, but ultimately dissatisfies anyone who is not of its intended age group, as much as it gets some core ideas right.

The focus centers around two patients suffering from cystic fibrosis, Stella and Will, whose idiocy harms each other to the extent where they’re hard to cheer on. Even while Will later displays a heart, it ultimately satisfies your moral high ground once they reap what they sow. Everyone else around them, patients and staff, acts aloof due to the weakly written tragedy, in empty attempts to replicate another classic romance, Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind. Putting the two between ice and stars does not make Will less of a jerk, nor does copying that iconic shot make Stella as empathetic as Clementine Kruczynski.

Although Stella and Will could die any day, alone, hospitalized, of which the movie mostly stays inside of; the emotional separation enables easy befriending of sadness like any emotional separation you’ve felt before. You will remember those broken bonds as the camera emphasizes Stella and Will’s six-foot distance; much different than the intent of most romantic dramas that want to get intimate, this pulls back to set the waterworks off.

Plenty of details expose Stella’s living condition in a nutshell: a stuffed panda gift from her dead sister connects to bamboo that decorates a meditation room she sits in, which in turn is the subject of a poster on her door. Together, these subtle clues generate comprehension out of her desperate search for peace amidst the chaos. Then, it all takes a maximum strike when a surreal dream sequence pops her sister’s art to life; it’s a visualization of survivor’s guilt closer than ever before.

The director, Justin Baldoni, has a humble way of emphasizing the natural look as if it where a documentary—through techniques picked up from documentaries he directed in the past. Yet Baldoni does get carried away with the use of shaky-cam to the point where it obnoxiously disrupts calm scenes. There are also obtrusive elements that “pep” up the image, like graphics projecting text messages, that appear incredibly out of place.

At least those graphics don’t arise during the couple’s gentler exchanges of what they fear about what happens after death. However, even the emotional highs abuse the playing of unnecessary pop songs which fail to project Stella’s college-age girl mind, when an original score would have worked better. Still though, the love-birds’ existential crisis remains genuine, with the gross symptoms of Stella’s body causing fear of whether she will die right there.

There’s little reason to stay happy, so Stella cheers herself, along with the audience, up through a regularly updated vlog that explains everything, particularly why cystic fibrosis is such a thief. It helps Stella and Will bond after their instant connection in person, a source of joy that gets stronger as Will draws the apple of his eye by the window. It’s a Jack-Rose bond that fuels the romance and sets a strong contrast against the adults in control of their routines; focus wisely stays on the younger generation without its abuse on authority breaking a chain link from happiness.

Except one ultimate strike makes the experience less joyful: the characters get too much freedom to the extent of being unrealistic; they seriously can go to the gym or rooftop whenever without supervision. There needs to be an explanation to how this incompetent hospital operates, instead of some manipulative video footage starting and ending this film. Also, how on earth did Will get cologne despite literally having no money!? Too little focus on simple explanations make the writing resemble a sappy teen romance novel. While life may be too short for rules, it’s also too short for on-the-nose statements the couple says like, “God, you’re beautiful.”

As time goes by, you should find far stronger applications to livelihood than wasting time on Netflix, that being the love of another. Five Feet Apart attempts to restore your confidence, and won’t succeed in doing that for everyone, but its visualized importance of community can be just enough to lift today’s youth back up by the bootstraps.

Thanks so much for your time in reading! Please subscribe to my site for more updates on reviews.

If there is a specific movie you’d like to see graded, or if you are interested in guest blogging for my site, please email me at Trevor@TrevorsViewOnHollywood.com for your recommendations.​Have a great weekend, and happy watching!